


If You Name Things Expect to Grow Attached to Them

by corvidity



Category: Gintama
Genre: Canon Divergent, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Manga Spoilers Everywhere, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5809201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidity/pseuds/corvidity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What became of Imai Nobume after Sasaki Isaburo took her in; or how a crow child found a place and name to call her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering what that canon divergent tag means, I hope you're an up to date manga reader. If not, you're welcome to spoil yourself. 
> 
>  
> 
> SPOILERS
> 
>  
> 
> As you know, Nobume canonically did not kill Isaburo's wife and newborn; she 'failed to protect them.' For a lot of [reasons](http://first-quarter-of-the-moon.tumblr.com/post/128039028501/this-is-still-bothering-me-more-than-a-month-after), I dislike this. So I'm starting on the assumption that Nobume (or Mukuro) killed them. The rest of the fic is an attempt to fill in how she grew up with Isaburo. 
> 
> **WARNINGS**  
>  Mostly for death and mourning, but also for mentions of blood and violence - Mukuro being a child assassin and all. 
> 
> Second, I've been working and procrastinating on this story since July last year, and I figured that with the Farewell Shinsengumi arc about to air, I may as well post the first chapter. (There'll probably be 16 chapters in total, though I've yet to work everything out.)

The night was deathly quiet, a pale moon glowing above the cold corpses. Isaburo didn’t even have the chance to pretend anyone was still alive, the dead air settling atop the bodies rather than picking at their clothes.

He recalled running, could feel the ache in his legs that testified to this singular sensation playing on an endless loop inside his head. Suddenly, he was seized by the urge to keep running – if he kept running, there was still a chance he would reach her in time; still a chance, however slim, that he would see her displeasure at his lateness, see her holding up their daughter. Without thinking, Isaburo lifted his phone up and stared at the screen.

_Message could not be sent._

Moonlight glanced off the metallic skin of her phone. Isaburo closed his eyes. The message hadn’t reached her yet. If he found a place with better reception, he was sure she would receive it. In the meantime, he had to deal with the girl.

She was still propped up against the wall like a doll, unnervingly fragile for a child assassin. Even though he doubted she would flee, Isaburo commanded her to remain where he was. Then he stepped over the corpses, edging his way around pools of dried blood to the nearest house.

The interior was dark but not entirely dead; uneaten dishes sat cooling on low tables, chopsticks neatly arranged beside each plate. It seemed entirely artificial, and Isaburo wondered if the people who’d lived here had truly fled. For all he knew, they could have been marched outside and executed in cold blood. The Naraku were nothing if not ruthless; an entire village punished for the sins of a man they knew nothing of was another day’s work to them.

Isaburo made for the private quarters and ignored everything else. He was only after a clean kimono for the girl, nothing more. The Naraku would seek them out before long, but that didn’t mean he had to air the child’s presence to all and sundry.

There. In the bottom drawer, a kimono small enough to fit a child. Taking it hardly equated to stealing, since the owner most likely wasn’t around anymore. Amusing, really, that he still entertained such notions of honour when he’d felt barely any indignation for the slaughter of his wife’s retainers. The fabric was soft between his sword-calloused fingers, and not wishing to dwell any longer in a shell of a home, Isaburo made for the outside world.

The child was sitting where he’d left her, vacant gaze and bloodstained kimono unchanged. Without her breathing, audible in the complete and utter silence, she might have passed for one of the corpses lying around. Among them, he knew, his wife and newborn, and try as he might he couldn’t feel their loss. The rupture between what he knew and what he felt was a river so wide he could drown in it, if not for the girl.

“What is your name?”

The tear tracks glinted briefly as she raised her head. For a few seconds she was silent, then she finally settled on a flat “Mukuro.”

“Mukuro,” he repeated. A morbid name that she lived up to. “Very well.” Isaburo tossed the bundle of clothing at her. “Here, change out of that kimono. It’ll only attract the wrong sorts of attention, and I don’t want to be troubled more than necessary. Clean your face as well. Go on, use one of those houses. Don’t dawdle.”

Mukuro moved off silently, leaving Isaburo to the company of the bodies. He would have to dispose of them to disguise any evidence of what had occurred; and to save the dead the indignity of falling prey to wild beasts and ravens. It was the least he could do for them, as their souls weren’t likely ever to forgive him.

While his wife’s hometown had not been in especially close contact with the Amanto there was still evidence of their influence, and in one house he found a relatively full can of oil and a pack of matches.

By the time he brought the materials back outside Mukuro was there to meet him. She looked respectable, the bloodied kimono held in one hand. To any stranger they might cross paths with Mukuro would appear, for all intents and purposes, to be just another child. Her eyes, however – and when Isaburo met her gaze, they flitted away. A murderer’s eyes, she’d said. There’d be no scrubbing the blood out of them, and the best he could do would be a broad straw hat like his.

“Give me the kimono.” Isaburo averted his gaze from the rust-coloured splotches as he threw it onto the nearest body. Oil can in hand, he walked around the corpses pouring out the entire contents. Then he lit a match and set fire to the nearest pool of oil, the nascent flames flickering weakly and slowly. Isaburo struck another few matches in succession and tossed them in. This time, the fire roared into life and began consuming the bodies in earnest, sending sparks spinning up into the moon.

It was regrettable that there was no time to do the proper rites since they wanted to get a head start on the Naraku. Isaburo had no desire to remain in a village of the dead lest he join them; but he doubted he could truly leave it anyway: the burning bodies were seared into his memory already, the stench he was sure would cling to his own skin long after the bodies turned to ash. The fire licked at the heavens, swallowing his view of the stars with thickening smoke.

“We’re leaving,” he said, directing it to himself as much as Mukuro. She watched the fire impassively. Isaburo turned around and began walking away, the phone a dead weight in his pocket. He heard her light footsteps behind him and the crackle of the growing fire, but he did not look back at either one of them.

*

Isaburo didn’t know how far they walked, their moonlit shadows stretching ever longer on what was already the long road back to Edo.

“Is that a town?” he squinted at a dark splotch on the horizon, a mass of shadows dotted with pinpricks of light. They soon set foot on the main road that ran through the town centre. Inns lined both sides, most of them showing vacancy signs. Isaburo picked one at random.

The innkeeper, a young woman, was reading a novel by the light of a lamp when they entered. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and looked at them again.

“Rest assured, we’re very much real,” Isaburo said, one eyebrow arching up.

“Forgive me, it’s been a long day. Good evening to the both of you.” She inclined her head respectfully even as her voice betrayed her curiosity. “It’s more of a good morning though, given the hour. Can’t imagine why there would be travellers on the road at this time.”

Isaburo glared. “Indeed, the hour is late, which is precisely why I and my travelling companion would like a room for the night. I’m sure you could manage that much.” He was in no mood for pleasantries, mocking or otherwise.

The innkeeper put her novel down with a heavy, irritated thump. “There’s no need to be so rude. We do have rooms, though I’m afraid the kitchens are closed and there is no food available.”

“Fine.”

“Your name?”

“Sasaki Tadasaburo.” The name slipped off his tongue easily, and the part of him that clung onto a samurai’s honour sighed deeply at such trickery.

“Second room on your right, enjoy what remains of your stay.”

With an imperious hand she waved them down a corridor, Isaburo sweeping off and Mukuro shadowing him. The room was sparse and contained the bare minimum, two futons laid out on fraying tatami while a flickering electric lamp sat atop a wooden table, its light barely denting the darkness beyond the futons. There was a pile of folded yukatas on a shelf next to the table; to its right was a silk screen painted with falling cherry blossoms.

Isaburo picked up a yukata and retreated behind the folding screen, quickly changing out of his travelling clothes. Though he shuddered to wear them later, he had nothing else. In his haste to reach Mizuki and their newborn he had abandoned everything save his sword, which (of course) hadn’t saved anyone.

“We’ll be on our way in a few hours,” he said to Mukuro once changed. “Get what sleep you can.”

She kept her gaze lowered as she slipped behind the screen, wary of meeting his eyes. For all the ease with which she read people, Isaburo’s motives were beyond her. He, who could not bear to see blood on the hands of children, had spared her, a child assassin responsible for the murder of his family; he, who had only hours ago agonised over a simple name but now set his sights on toppling the Bakufu; he, a mortal taking on the heavens. Contrary to reason then and contrary to reason now. It wasn't possible, after all, for his eyes to condemn and pity in the same instant.

Mukuro changed into the yukata, folding the kimono and placing it on the floor next to her futon. Once she’d wriggled into it Isaburo turned the light off, plunging the room into darkness.

For a few minutes there was nothing, then a faint rustling as Isaburo turned his back to her. She could hear his breathing and the thud of her beating heart in these dead hours, and she wondered again why they were alive at all. Mukuro turned to face the other wall, closing her eyes in the expectation of a few long hours.

*

The silence was unnaturally loud.

_Why did you spare her?_

In some perverted sense, the girl was his sole link to what had been his family. A leftover, a grim souvenir, now his weapon.

_What a cruel name. Even you’d be hard pressed to come up with anything worse._

It was the nature of fate to be cruel, and she’d been dealt the short straw when adopted by the Naraku. Her name was the least cruelty they’d inflicted on her – even crueller of them to send a child to kill another child, he thought; there were no limits to the depths they would sink to despite their lofty perch.

Behind him, Isaburo heard the rustle of a futon as Mukuro shifted in her sleep – or was she finding sleep hard to come by as well?

If Lord Matsudaira ever found out about Mukuro, he’d be blunt about it. Picking up stray children in a time when children were being orphaned every second wasn’t an act of charity, it was more a burden, and especially for an elite like him who didn’t need another mouth to feed. Not to mention, the last time Matsudaira had seen him, circumstances had necessitated an awkward and rushed parting; now he came back with an orphaned girl and no news of his wife.

Mukuro would never pass for family, not even a distant member – their dissimilarity aside, it was too fragile a story. The questions would be thick and furious, and someone would uncover the lie before long. Neither could he adopt her, since the formalities would only be a distraction. Mukuro, in the end, would be better off remaining Mukuro. 

Besides, Isaburo thought, she would likely want to forget her past. The least kindness he could do was erase it for her. All they had left was the future, but before that, the long night.

As dawn broke and bird calls filtered into the room, his eyes were still open.

*

Isaburo paid for their night’s stay with a fistful of coins, which the innkeeper counted twice over.

“Ah, and one more thing. A hat for the child.”

The woman frowned. “Don’t expect it to be free of charge, even for a samurai.”

“When did I ever say I would not pay you?” Isaburo drawled. The innkeeper crossed her arms over her chest, tone defensive. “Can’t be too careful in these times. People aren’t who they say they are. Why, one of my guests last night told me about a child who’d waylaid him, pretending to be lost, when in reality he was waiting for the perfect chance to murder him and take off with his wallet!” The woman shook her head. “It’s a terrible state of affairs when you can’t even trust children.”

Isaburo smiled wryly and handed over the coins; they jangled in the woman’s palm as she counted them. Satisfied, she gave him a straw hat identical to his own.

He placed the hat on Mukuro’s head, and she raised a hand to push the brim up. Isaburo tugged it down as soon as she did so. “Keep it lowered,” he murmured.

“Take care,” the innkeeper called after them as they left.

By day the road was a washed out monotone, melting into the distance. They often passed remnants of the war: husks of burnt-out houses, piles of ruin and rubble that doubled as graveyards, discarded weapons by the roadside. Harsh, guttural crow calls followed them for hours on end, and Mukuro would tip back the brim of her hat to observe them. Isaburo stopped reprimanding her after the first few times; mostly they were the only people for miles, and as the empty road unfurled he caught himself wondering who exactly he had wanted to hide Mukuro from.

The very thought of the Naraku loomed over him as a death sentence would. No disguise or amount of discretion would keep them hidden for long; it was surely a matter of time before they were discovered. And illegitimate child of a Shinigami or no, Mukuro was not immortal, nor was she exempt from the judgement of the heavens.

Would they go so far as to kill her?

Isaburo shuddered. It was best not to dwell on what he could not control.

_So why did you not kill her when you had the chance?_ Because he wasn’t like the Naraku, and for all her sins, Mukuro was still a child. She couldn’t have been born into a life of routine murder.

Isaburo stole a sideways glance at her, and sharp as ever, she saw it immediately. Mukuro drew her hat down without a word or exhalation; he turned his gaze to the road once more.

They walked in silence until the next round of crow calls drew their heads up. A stream of them soared overhead, doubtless chasing the scent of blood and carnage to their next meal. Isaburo glanced at Mukuro, her gaze fixed skywards.

“Come, we should hurry. Nightfall will be upon us soon.”

If they made good time he hoped to see the outskirts of Edo by then. Isaburo pulled his hat down firmly, and sped up his pace. For a few seconds he heard nothing; then the patter of sandaled feet sounded behind him, quiet as a light summer rain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention, while this story's focus is primarily Nobume, I also give Isaburo his share of space. Also, since his wife's first name is never canonically mentioned, I chose one for her.

“Got any ID on you?”

In the poor light between the setting sun and the rising moon the guard’s face was obscured, though Isaburo didn’t need to see his expression to detect the hostility. None of the previous checkpoints leading up to Edo had pressed him on his paperwork, taking his sword as sufficient proof of his identity.

“Must I produce any? It should be obvious that I’m no low-life Joui rebel. Besides, have you ever seen one of their ilk dressed so well?”

“No sir, I’m referring to the girl.” The guard nodded at Mukuro, who had come to a wary stop one or two paces behind Isaburo. Her brightly coloured kimono clashed with her sullen expression to that point that it almost looked comical, if not for the vague feeling that she could kill anyone who even thought about laughing at her.

“Oh, her?” Isaburo waved a dismissive hand. “She’s travelling with me, isn’t that enough?” The last thing he needed after seeing his wife and daughter dead was a protracted argument with a nobody.

“Begging your pardon sir, but that’s not good enough for the new rules. Joui activity’s been on the rise of late, some treasonous talk around town. It’s now mandatory for everyone to carry and produce proper identification on demand, no matter how…elite.” The hesitation on the last word carried the faintest traces of disdain.

Isaburo gave Mukuro a cursory glance, who avoided his gaze. “Perhaps the non-elite cannot even see the same things we do. She’s very clearly a child, and I doubt a child would be implicated in treason, much less be a terrorist. There’s absolutely no threat she could pose to the Shogun, directly or otherwise. Now, would you step aside? I’d rather return to my residence before dark.”

The other man didn’t balk. “Sir, I can just about let you in, but that girl needs some form of identification. It’s just the rules, honestly.”

“I think common sense would come first, though clearly that’s wasted on you.”

The fierce glaring contest that ensued would likely have ended rather messily if not for the intervention of the captain of the guard, who stormed towards them. “Oi, what’s going on over there? Shift’s almost over and some of us have families to go home to, you know. Is there something wrong with his ID?”

It was only when he was standing practically in front of Isaburo that recognition flashed across his features, and he tripped backwards.

“My – my lord Sasaki!” the captain squeaked, hastily bowing before hissing at his subordinate. “What were you thinking, you lunatic? This is Sasaki Isaburo! Do you want to disembowel yourself?” He cuffed the other man around the back of the head and turned to Isaburo, bowing again.

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience this incompetent fool has caused, sir. I hope you haven’t been kept waiting for long.”

It took another hard nudge to the first guard’s side for him to apologise. “I am deeply sorry for my mistake,” he offered through gritted teeth.

Isaburo forced a smile. There went his intentions for a low-key return to Edo. He sensed Mukuro shifting impatiently, and decided to get this over and done with as soon as possible.

“I trust it won’t happen again. In fact, I may even bring this incident up with Lord Matsudaira.”

“A genuine mistake of which we will say nothing!” the captain reassured him from behind a thin sheen of sweat. “We – we were just following orders after the laws were tightened!”

“Oh?” Curiosity piqued, Isaburo leaned forward. “Tell me more.”

“Just a few more troublemakers around than usual, sir.” The captain’s laugh was stilted. “Lord Sadasada had some new laws passed to better protect the young Shogun. Nothing for esteemed lords such as yourself to worry about.”

Isaburo inclined his head in agreement. “Of course. We can’t have anyone waltzing into Edo, least of all rebel scum.” Not that he trusted them to take off the proverbial head of the bakufu; that was a job better left to the elite.

“No, certainly not!” the captain agreed. The other guard nodded along silently and reluctantly, and backed away to open the gate. “Please go ahead sir, you and the girl. And welcome back to Edo!”

*

Two static lights alerted him to their destination. He was glad of the cover the night provided, masking the weariness he felt in every part of his body. Mukuro, on the other hand, looked none the worse off. Nevertheless, the subtle quickening of her pace seemed to indicate she too was raring for rest.

Isaburo would never say it aloud, but he was relieved to have made it back in one piece; either he’d overestimated the Naraku, or they’d been allowed to live. If they’d been spared, he shuddered to think why, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Stop! Who goes there?” one of the sentries cried on their approach. As the pair stepped into the light cast by the lanterns, the one on the left hurried to open the gate. His partner couldn’t bow quickly enough. “Master Sasaki! Welcome home!”

Isaburo swept past both without acknowledging them. Mukuro drifted beside him, her face still well hidden under the width of the hat and by the darkness.

The complex grounds were barely lit, though word was spreading quickly and light began to flood from a household roused by the return of its master. Footsteps and frantic murmurings became louder and louder, and Mukuro seemed to flinch from the sudden swell in noise. Isaburo frowned. A child assassin, unnerved by something so trivial?

From the moment they’d met, she’d carried herself as an adult would, killed as an adult would, and with a coldness lacking in many adults. It was jarring to remember that she was still, in some aspects, a child. As lanterns began to bob their way towards the two, Mukuro stiffened and edged behind Isaburo a little. 

“Mukuro,” he murmured, if only to ease her tension a fraction, “this is where you will be living now.” _Living._ The sheer absurdity of the word crossed his mind. “I’ll have my servants set up your room right away. They won’t disturb you, but I expect you will not impede them either. Am I understood?”

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet and betrayed very little. The momentary alarm was gone, now she stepped beside him, her face appropriately blank.

And then the old head of the household was upon them, flanked by several servants. All looked as if they’d thrown on jackets and coats in a hurry, many unable to hide their panting and flushed faces.

“Master Sasaki, you didn’t send word you’d be back so quickly!”

“My apologies, Chiyo.” Isaburo waved a hand to the girl beside him. “Please see to it that Mukuro here is given a room not far from mine.”

Without offering any explanations and ignoring the concerned mutterings from the servants, he swept past the entire party and into the house. At his back there was a light rustling, the only sign that Mukuro was following.

*

Despite their misgivings, the servants were effective and discreet in moving around the fusama to create a small room in the private wings. There was a futon on the tatami mats, a clear space for her shoes, a hanging scroll in an alcove, a kimono rack, and a dresser.

Isaburo had not spoken a word to Mukuro since their dramatic entrance, presumably having retired early. She was glad for it; didn’t want to cause him any more trouble than she already had.

He’d even given her a room – to think, that he would be so generous as to give his family’s murderer a roof to shelter under. Not only had Isaburo allowed it, but it was _hers._ There was something unnatural about laying claim to something as permanent as a house, a room, a home. Mukuro and the other children had stayed in abandoned dojos for weeks, even months at a time, moving on after carrying out their missions. There was no point in remaining in one place for long. Unlike the crows they so assiduously used, the children had no nest of their own.

They’d had little in the way of belongings, too. After each successful job she discarded her clothes, leaving a clean slate for each kill. (Blood wasn’t easy to wash out.) The things they scavenged from corpses – a tattered photo, a golden hairpin, a well-thumbed book, a bundle of dried flowers – never lasted long either.

“You have no need for earthly attachments,” was what Utsuro said. In the end, the only things Mukuro had truly owned were her skills as an assassin, her sullied hands, and her sword.

Unconsciously, her fingers brushed against the hilt, and her stomach clenched at the memory. Bodies, blood, moonlight rising above the horizon and in her throat; frightened screams, a baby’s loud, loud wailing. Two wide eyes pleaded with her, a tremulous voice – all of it weighing on her chest and squeezing her lungs, and the room was too small and cramped to breathe properly; she wanted nothing more than to get out, go outside –

Half-stumbling to the shoji, she managed to push it open and stick her head into the cool night air. _Breathe,_ she reminded herself. _This is unbecoming. I am above this._

The answering burst of wind sounded like mocking laughter.

*

Later that night after a modest dinner, Mukuro lay under her futon unable to sleep a wink. Every swish of the fabric over her skin felt too soft, as incorporeal as a cloud, and she wouldn’t be surprised if the entire futon unravelled by daybreak as Oboro rapped her head smartly, reminded her to stop dreaming, and to get up.

Turn to the left, turn to the right. Lie on her back staring at the ceiling. None of it made a difference; she was as uncomfortable as ever. Throw out her arm and hit the sheath of her sword, only to retract her hand immediately. It didn’t make sleep come any easier.

As a last resort, Mukuro pushed herself out of the futon entirely. She shivered as a cold wind passed over her arms, raising goosebumps. A quick glance at the shoji confirmed her suspicions; it was still open like some wide, dark mouth. Was it worth the effort to get up and close it? The next gust of wind made her decision for her. With a touch of reluctance, she wriggled back into the futon, and almost as an afterthought, turned her back to the cold.

Perhaps if she stared at the darkness hard enough it would swallow her whole, and save everyone the trouble of her existence. Mukuro shut her eyes and ignored the cold caresses against her back. Eventually, the hours flowed away into the corners of the room, and she felt herself go with them at some point in the night.

*

The first thing she registered was gentle vibrations against her cheek. Footsteps, she thought drowsily, followed by muffled cries and sleepy good mornings exchanged in bright voices. Water was running and splashing outside; the sun warming her back. Mukuro shifted towards the warmth. It was early, and she needed to get up before Oboro came in to scold her for –

The footsteps that approached were not Oboro’s, and the figure that the sliding door revealed only confirmed her new reality.

“Good morning, Mukuro. I hope you slept well?”

She pulled herself up, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. “Good morning,” she replied. It felt strange to fall back into these patterns of formality, ones she’d never had use for as an assassin. Tedious things, markers of false sincerity. She’d never bowed to her victims or said _pleased to meet you_ before she cut them down.

So she spoke only when necessary, never wasting her breath on meaningless exchanges. Her sword had always been eloquent enough, and – Mukuro forcibly turned the recollection away. Isaburo saw her as human enough for human pleasantries, so she would strive to please him.

“I slept well.” A lie, though she did not care much.

“Good. But don’t expect many more wake up calls from me. In future, I expect you will know when to wake yourself, and if needed, I will send in the servants. However, seeing as this is your first full day here, I’ve made some alternative arrangements.” Isaburo’s gaze drifted to the still-open shoji, but made no comment. “Well, we have no time to waste. Get dressed and meet me in five minutes.”

He deposited a pile of clothes in front of her. “These were generously donated by the servants whose daughters have outgrown them. I will buy you new garments, but these will suffice in the interim.”

Mukuro stared at the pile, groping for the word she wanted. “Thank – thank you…” She trailed off uncertainly, all proper forms of address dying on her tongue as soon as she thought of them. _How exactly do I address a man whose family I killed?_ Her fingers twisted in the fabric. _What did I do to deserve his kindness?_

“You’re welcome,” he replied curtly, giving no sign he’d noticed her hesitation. “As I was saying, we have no time to waste.”   

Then he was gone, leaving the full force of the morning sunshine to flood in. Mukuro couldn’t remember ever seeing so much light.

*

A week later, and Mukuro had grasped the lay of the complex surprisingly well. That meant Isaburo could leave her to wander around, safe in the knowledge she wouldn’t lose her way. It also meant that he had the time to see to the few things Mizuki had left behind. She’d insisted on raising Nobume – the thought of her name made him queasy – insisted on raising their daughter in her hometown for the first few months, where Mizuki would be most comfortable.

“I’ll move into your place sooner or later,” she would say, leaving behind clothes, personal effects, the various imprints of her life. “There’s no rush, right?”

_True enough._ Isaburo had all the time in the world now, at least until he brought the Bakufu to its knees. But the more time he had, the less certain he was of what to do with Mizuki’s belongings. Logically, he should return them to her family. Yet they wouldn’t have any use for her things. To destroy them was perhaps a step too far (and one for which he wasn’t prepared). Giving them to charity seemed a waste. In lieu of anything better to do, Isaburo ordered the servants to pack her belongings away.

“She is not coming back,” was the only explanation he would offer. They knew better than to question him, but the fear and pity in their eyes was not so well hidden.  

In the face of the war, he and Mizuki had still believed they would have a lifetime together, a family too. There was time enough to acquaint themselves with the other’s habits and mannerisms after the birth of their child; enough years to grow into family life and parenthood. He’d not known much of Mizuki beyond her fragrance, her supple skin and gentle teasing. _You’re no fun,_ she’d sometimes tease, _that’s why your sense of humour is so terrible._

“Sir?” One of the servants was at the threshold of his office, a cardboard box in his arms.

“What is it?” Isaburo snapped. The man flinched a little and gripped the box tighter.

“The storage room is almost full.”

“Is it?” In his memory his time with her had been fleeting, swallowed by all the years they could have shared; a mere drop in an ocean. Had she really set down so many roots in two years? Dull surprise throbbed at the back of his head; a weary voice that said, _what were you expecting?_

_Not for her to die at the hands of a child._ He suppressed a sudden desire to laugh. Yet more evidence of his terrible sense of humour, and she would have berated him with a small smile if she were here. He brought the image to mind, but it frightened him that he couldn’t quite picture the exact way her eyes lit up, or the shape of her smile; where she held her hands.

Isaburo was well aware that his memory of her would fade over time – such was the fallibility of the human mind – but he rebelled against it in his own quiet, desperate ways; if he had failed to protect her life, he would not forget something as simple as a smile.  

And as such, he glared daggers at the servant. “Expand the storage room, then. I don’t care what has to be sacrificed or moved around. Make it happen.”  

“Yes sir!”

The servant vanished, his footsteps fading into the distance. Immediately, Isaburo sighed and raised a hand to rub his eyes. He’d never thought of himself as sentimental, and he certainly wasn’t going to keep those reminders of her life forever. Putting them in storage was a temporary solution, a way to keep her memory alive, at least until the time came. Perhaps he could burn everything then. here was a certain appeal to the idea.

Isaburo let his eye wander around the office, toying with the thought. Without meaning to, his gaze landed on the plastic pot plant standing next to his bookcases. It was hard not to see, considering the vividly, offensively pink flowers that decorated its branches.   

_You need some colour in this place,_ she’d said. _Why not some peonies? If they’re plastic you won’t have to care for them, and indoors the colour won’t dull._

That could burn too, for all he cared. It wouldn’t take long for the flowers to curl in on themselves, pink plastic bleaching to bone-white, and then crumbling into grey ash. He could almost hear the branches snapping, and smell the odour of burning skin, peeling and cracking, smoke rising to meet the sky. If he added in a bright, hanging moon the scene would almost be a carbon copy of another night, and he didn’t need to imagine that.

Carefully, Isaburo took a deep breath, and slowly sank into his chair.

From the tree branch that she was perched on, Mukuro had a clear view through the window and of Isaburo’s back. As soon as his shoulders began to shake, she slipped down the tree and out of sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to offer a detailed explanation of why this chapter is going up more than a month after the previous one, but my sleep-deprived brain is kind of scrambled and all I can say right now is "I'm very sorry."

Two weeks after their return to Edo, Matsudaira wanted to see him. The old man had his whims, and everyone save the Shogun could only bend to them. Isaburo remembered their parting with a certain amount of awkwardness. But there wasn’t any point in avoiding the questions, or in raising Matsudaira’s suspicions (even worse, his _concern._ )

Isaburo was checked for weapons when he arrived at the complex. Once the guards were satisfied he posed no threat, they let him through into Matsudaira’s office. The man himself was seated at his desk, the wood spotless with disuse. It was well-known that the Director of Police disliked the tedious side of being a public servant; anything that involved more soft-footing than straight-talking he considered a waste of his time. Testament to that were his black sunglasses, as if he could at least maintain the illusion of being outside. _A man only has one life,_ he was fond of saying. _Why should I spend it on paperwork?_

Matsudaira waved at Isaburo to sit down, pushing aside a few papers. “Oi, don’t just stand there, Sasaki. Get over here. Glad to see ya, these damned reports are doing my head in. Everybody’s got a problem with their neighbours these days.” He emphatically slammed an ash tray on a large pile of papers and lit up a cigar.

“So, how’ve you been?”

Isaburo seated himself carefully. “Lord Matsudaira, please don’t say you went to all the trouble to summon me merely for some… _diversion_ from your duties?”

“’Course not! Ah, Sasaki, have I missed that long face of yours.” Matsudaira took a thoughtful drag of the cigar. “You didn’t tell me you were back in Edo. I thought you’d still be with your wife. The way you ran off like that, must’ve been an early delivery. How is she, anyway?”

Isaburo could not imagine the conversation getting off to a worse start. “I’ve no time for small talk, so if you could inform me what precisely you called me for –”

“Come now, good news should be shared!” Matsudaira boomed. “And you know me, I don’t need an excuse to talk frankly with a friend.”

“I’m not sure you want to know how frank I can be.”    

Matsudaira snorted, an admirable feat considering the cigar between his teeth. “You know how thick my skin is, Sasaki. Don’t be afraid, let’s hear some real talk.”

“With all due respect, I believe your head is thicker.”

Isaburo almost bit his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth. He’d been going for a casual diversion, not an invitation to have his head lopped off. “My lord,” he began, only to realise that Matsudaira was chuckling so hard he’d taken the cigar out of his mouth.

“Ah, I knew there was a good reason they called you Monster of Three Heavens,” he said once his laughter had subsided. “Let’s see,” and he held up his fingers as he counted off each one, “you’ve got your sword, your pen, and a sharp tongue. Ya don’t even need a gun at this rate, or they’d be calling you Monster of _Four_ Heavens. Not the best number, right?” Matsudaira rumbled in amusement, taking another puff of his cigar. Smoke curled around the room and out the thin crack of the one open window.

“No, can’t say it would be.” Isaburo forced a smile, trying his best not to cough. Nonetheless, he was grateful for what had turned out to be an effective diversion. “Your wit never ceases to amuse. But if you’ve had your laugh for the day, I should be on my way…”

“Ah, not so fast.”

And here Matsudaira’s tone, despite its gravelly quality, took on a sharper edge. “Alright, _I’ll_ be frank. Are you and your wife doing well?”

Halfway out of the chair, Isaburo froze. Slowly, he sat back down with as much dignity as he could muster. Was it possible – Did the other man know about Mizuki? Why else would he have called Isaburo here in the middle of the day with nothing more than a trifling excuse about friendship?

“Relax, Sasaki.” Matsudaira disposed of the cigar in the ash tray and turned his full attention to Isaburo. “I’m not ‘bout to pry into yer personal affairs. But after what ya did for the Roshigumi, well.” And he shrugged his broad shoulders, lowering his head. Sunlight caught his greying hairs. “Just wanted to know how you’re both doing.”

Isaburo quickly recalculated – Matsudaira probably didn’t know, but he certainly suspected something was off. _Reassure him,_ was his first thought.

“We’re –” it took a huge effort to keep his voice steady, “We’re fine.” It was such a transparent lie he wondered why he’d even bothered to make it. “But,” he continued, “Mizuki is a little under the weather of late. She’s put off any unnecessary travel, so it’ll be a while before she returns to Edo.”

Matsudaira grunted. “Sorry to hear that. Give her my best wishes, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Isaburo kept his gaze on the single slice of blue sky he could see over Matsudaira’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your concern. Thank you very much.”

“No, no,” Matsudaira interjected. “I should be thankin’ you, after what you did. Those men you saved are going to be Edo’s new police force. The Shinsengumi. Pretty big step up for ‘em, eh?”

The blue slice of sky began to waver. Those wild dogs who more resembled samurai than he did were closer in status than ever. He’d given up everything for them, and they were taking ever more from him. “Certainly,” Isaburo said hollowly, “a great step up.”

One so great he could barely contain the depth of his emotion. He was stepping over corpses again, averting his eyes from the worst of the blood and spilled guts, his fingers numb from how hard he was clenching his fist.

“Sasaki?”

Isaburo blinked, and watched the blue solidify. “Ah, my apologies. I was a little…carried away by how far those men have come. Most impressive.” He shifted his gaze back to Matsudaira. Any longer staring at the sky and his eyes would be watering. As his vision adjusted to the dimmer interior of the office, he noticed that Matsudaira was looking at him askance, with a kind of shrewdness that Isaburo had never thought the other man capable of.

Isaburo coughed. “Ah, it’s quite warm today, isn’t it?” he noted. Anything to turn the conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” Matsudaira lit up another cigar. “Summer’s just round the corner. The Shinsengumi will be starting their duties in a couple of days. Do you –” his voice caught for a moment, and Isaburo could almost read his doom in it. _He knows after all, doesn’t he? He knows about her and the village and –_ But with the sunglasses firmly in place, nothing of the other’s expression gave him away. “Do you want to come see how they’re doing, Sasaki? A lot of ‘em have improved since last time, you’d be surprised. That Kondo boy’s not so bad.”

Isaburo never wanted to lay eyes on that lot again, and especially not their leader. “I’ll have to give it a pass, my lord. I have a very busy schedule in the coming days.”

“Aw, c’mon, you won’t even drop in for a few minutes just to see ‘em?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time.”

“Ah, you’re busy all the time!” Matsudaira boomed, looking more like his usual florid self. “All work and no play. But, well, each man to his own.”

Isaburo inclined his head. “Of course. If there’s nothing else you want from me, I should be returning to my work.” He began to stand up, and to his relief Matsudaira didn’t stop him.

“It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Don’t be so formal,” Matsudaira grumbled warmly, and he too stood up to pat Isaburo on the back. “C’mon, I’ll escort you outside. God knows I need the fresh air an’ sunshine after being cooped up in here for ages.”

The two guards stationed outside the office abruptly stood to attention until Matsudaira waved them down. “Really bugs me to have all this extra security around,” he confided once they were out of earshot.

A few of the friendlier guards offered polite, if artificial, smiles at the pair. The sun beat a warm rhythm on Isaburo’s head, and the faint hum of bees reached his ears as they passed a clump of well-tended rose bushes.

“On the contrary, my lord,” Isaburo said once they were around the corner, “it should reassure you to be so well-protected.”

“I can look after myself perfectly well, you know that. Or d’you think I’m getting on in years?”

That elicited a genuine chuckle from Isaburo. “Certainly not.” A man known as the God of Destruction should never be taken lightly. Thick-headed as Matsudaira was, Isaburo wouldn’t cross swords with him even if he were drunk and stumbling around in his underwear. (A drunk Matsudaira was a more terrifying thought than a sober one.)

“They’re wastin’ their men here,” Matsudaira grumbled. “But Sho-chan – I mean, our great _Shogun_ insists on the extra security, an’ I’ve tried ta talk him out of it, but when his uncle throws in his lot as well, it’s two against one.”

“I’m sure Lord Sadasada has your best interests at heart.”

Matsudaira assented with a low grunt.

Their path was still patrolled by guards, and both men knew better than to say anything more. The times were fraught enough without needless talk of treason and subterfuge. Besides, it was best not to speak against the Shogun’s uncle, who wielded more power than the Shogun himself, however artificial that power was. And even Matsudaira was shrewd enough to know his place.

Such a strange era they lived in, Isaburo reflected, that the puppet ruler of the Shogunate could live out his fantasies at the expense of the people, and feed his greed for illusionary power. Stranger still that a crow child could, in all possibility, murder him if her heavenly masters demanded it.

“It was good to see you again, Sasaki. You should come by more often, maybe after your kid’s born.” They’d reached the gates, and Isaburo clasped Matsudaira’s hands a little too tightly as he said his farewells.

“I’ll do my best.”

He sped out the gates without a backward glance, unusual for one who prided himself on keeping up appearances. Only when Isaburo had disappeared from view did Matsudaira allow himself a thoughtful grunt. The kid wasn’t half as good as lying as he thought he was, and it’d been clear that something weighed on his shoulders. But to intrude any further would invite Isaburo’s suspicions, and he wanted to maintain their good relationship – heavens knew that Isaburo had more allies than true friends.   

*

The morning sunshine had pleasantly warmed the veranda outside Mukuro’s room, and she splayed her hands on the wood to soak it up. While she couldn’t see any tell-tale spots of black in the sky, it was only a matter of time before the crows came looking for her. If they left her in peace, she would be more than happy to return the favour. But if they did not… her hands felt too warm all of a sudden, and she promptly folded them in her lap instead. Whatever past she’d shared with her former employers, her allegiance lay with Isaburo now.

Her life and her sword were in his service. But nothing would change the fact that all she’d known was the Naraku before Shouyou, and before Isaburo. To suddenly find herself on the other side was a surreal experience.

The criminals she’d used to hunt were those who’d not known their place in the grand scheme of thing, defying the heavens on petty human whims. Criminals of the most heinous kind, as Oboro liked to say. And now she was one of them, a traitor of her own fate. But Mukuro was certain that it was what she deserved for her crimes, and being a traitor amounted to much less than being a murderer.

Not that any of it suppressed the flash of nostalgia that flitted across her mind. Even she had to accept her mind was a fickle thing, vulnerable to emotion, no matter how misplaced it was.

Clouds rolled by in a sky that was otherwise clear, clean and crisp and laden with the scent of cooking from the kitchens. A breeze touched her head lightly. Mukuro wondered how long it would be until Isaburo’s return. He’d promised to take breakfast with her, but the sun had long moved past morning. On the edges of her hearing, she sensed light footsteps.

_Not Isaburo, a boy…_

Right on cue, a timid voice spoke up behind her. “Miss…? Would you like some water at the very least? The master would not take kindly if he were to see you had not consumed anything.”

She turned her full attention on the boy, half irritated that he’d disturbed her quiet. He was a scrawny stick of a thing whose eyes lowered as soon as their gazes crossed. Tch, he looked so frail, unlike the children she’d known. Had the servants thought she’d be more comfortable speaking to someone her age? Their efforts betrayed their ignorance, and she had no sympathy to spare on the boy.

“I do not require anything.”

To his credit, he stood his ground. “Not even a cup of tea?” he half-whispered.

“Nothing.” His hesitation irritated her, and she stared at him with enough venom to send him scurrying back into whatever sorry hole he’d emerged from. Fortunately for the boy, a shadow dropped over him at that exact moment.

“Mukuro,” Isaburo began, weariness underneath her name despite the lateness of the day, “I see you’re frightening the servants already.”

“I-I’m most sorry sir, I was –”

A hassled sigh cut short the boy’s attempt at an explanation. “Who sent you here?” Isaburo asked with a margin more softness.

“Mistress Chiyo.”

“I thought so.” Isaburo refrained from rolling his eyes, though the effect was the same. “I will have a word or two with her later. But you’re dismissed for now. Get out of here before you faint.”

The boy’s relief was immediate. “Yes sir!” He bowed so low Mukuro thought he would surely tip over, then he scrambled out of the room without a backward glance. She heard his steps quickening as soon as he was out of sight. She couldn’t say she felt sorry for him, yet she couldn’t deny the twinge of discomfort at seeing the first child since she’d met since arriving flee from her.

Isaburo tutted. “Chiyo does like to take the initiative, though she obviously underestimated you.” He levelled his flat eyes at Mukuro. “I know you aren’t accustomed to being waited on, but try not to scare all the servants off. I’d prefer my household to run as smoothly as possible.”

Mukuro bowed her head once in acknowledgement. She would do better in future to make her disdain less open.

“Have you eaten yet?”

She shook her head. “You said… that we would have breakfast together.”

Isaburo frowned. “Did I?” The furrows deepened for a second. Then, just as abruptly as they’d appeared, they smoothed out, but not before she caught a glimpse of fatigue and irritation. Far from it that Isaburo was a forgetful person; perhaps he already regretted his decision to take her in. She was not easy to like, and though it was something that had always lurked at the bottom of her mind, she had never been more conscious of it than now.

He coughed lightly. “Ah, of course. Forgive me, Mukuro. I was, shall we say, preoccupied this morning with a certain person. Much more trouble than he’s worth. In any case, we can put that behind us and a large breakfast.”

Mukuro watched him stride out the room. Seeing that she wasn’t following, he back tracked impatiently. “Well, come along then, I’m quite hungry myself.”

She obediently trotted after him, the skies behind and above her still clear of clouds and crows.


End file.
